#hphbp

When they reached their destination, the blond began his speech. Theo had used more words trying to make him understand the reasons behind his acceptance of his father’s Death Eaters’ legacy and the subsequent joining of said organization, and why it would be beneficial for such a promising Pureblood Slytherin like Blaise himself to follow along the Cause, especially in their current time and date, than he had ever used on an essay he had been truly passionate about.

Blaise had to admit that Theo brought up some valid points: Dumbledore was the only thing standing in the way of the Dark Lord, and now that he was dead, there was no one stopping him from gaining his so desperately sought after power. First Hogwarts and then the Ministry would fall under him, making it impossible to find a safe haven for anyone who dared to oppose him.

Yet had been raised in families that didn’t follow along dictatorships, with his father being the exception, the black sheep. His Grand-père fought against Grindelwald when he came to France rather actively, opposing the Dark Wizard and telling little Blaise all the stories from the résistance, and his Nonno had always told him all about Italian Muggle Politics during the Wars, and they never ended well for the Fascist regime.

And he remembered all too well the look on his mother’s face whenever he brought the subject up. The Dark Lord had ruined his family and Blaise would not fall prey to him as well.

When Theo finished talking, looking drained of all the energy he had ever had, yet proud for some twisted reasons, Blaise had to control himself and prevent the laughter that was threatening to erupt out of him. Nott must’ve thought that he had given some rational points, but his words did the exact opposite of what was intended for them: if nothing, they fortified the knowledge that the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord would be on the wrong side of their History. He just hoped that his friend would see the error of his way before it was too late.

Instead of answering, he simply nodded once in understanding, keeping his opinions to himself. The entire situation was downright hilarious.

Blaise had thought, at the beginning of the year, that Draco was the more brainwashed of the pair, yet, after the Death Eaters attacked, he and Pansy had found a letter from the blond on his bed, all of his belongings gone and the room missing one of its five members. In that letter, Draco explained them what in Salazar’s name had happened.

How the Dark Lord had forced him to find a way for his followers to penetrate the castle, how he had been ordered to kill Dumbledore, how they gave him the Dark Mark and how he had accepted it all to protect his family. His father would’ve been tortured, Draco claimed, and his mother killed, if he didn’t follow the Dark Lord’s wishes. He didn’t want to do it, none of it. But he still did as he was told, he repaired an old and broken Vanishing Cabinet that was in the Room of Requirement and he made sure it linked back to one identical one, that still worked, in Borgin and Burkes and made sure it was a safe passage for the Death Eaters. He had worked on it the entire year, he claimed, as to explain why he didn’t pay attention to the classes anymore. He then went on, to their present, on how it was all going to go down that night. How he was supposed to kill Dumbledore and then flee. How Snape would’ve taken control of the school and how things would have changed, all starting with that night.

Blaise had been in shock as he read his friend’s words, with Pansy in a similar state.

They both knew that Draco had been tasked with something big, that he was working in secrecy and that he didn’t really want to do any of it, yet still did. But that wasn’t an excuse, nor that letter was an apology. Draco needed someone he trusted to know the truth and to also be able to claim that he did all of that without his will, that he had been forced.

Draco Malfoy did not look for redemption, he looked for an alibi. He didn’t follow the Dark Lord’s orders because he was a loyal and faithful servant, he did it because he was forced. And he had left records of it.

Theo, on the other hand, was the opposite. He had been blinded by his father’s beliefs, he had joined the Death Eaters because that had been the only thing he had been taught since he was born. To hate, to be superior, to be a Pureblood. As soon as the attack was over, he had marched into the Slytherin common room, exalted and high off adrenaline. He had yelled that Dumbledore was dead, eliciting contrasting reactions from his House mates. People had screamt, both in glee and agony, joy and fear. The common room was divided in those whose parents and relatives had been and were still favouring the dark side, and thus had taught them that way, and in those who didn’t want anything to do with the Dark Lord and his bigotry. And, in the midst of it, stood Theodore Nott, drunk on the scene, mentally tallying the reactions, staring expectantly at him with blown wide eyes, waiting for a smile of acknowledgment.

But Blaise couldn’t smile, couldn’t agree with the atrocities that were being committed. All he knew was that Dumbledore being dead meant that Hogwarts wasn’t a safe space anymore. Not only for those who opposed him openly, like Saint Potter and company, but also not a safe space for those who would prefer to remain neutral to the fight.

Not that he would’ve been, neutral to the fight.

Once again, days later, he stood in front of Theo, who was waiting for his reply when Blaise could do nothing but stare.

“I know you will do what’s right” Theo said, taking his silence as an agreement into the Death Eater’s path. In his mind, Blaise could not let the irony go. He would do what was right, by not joining the murderous tyrant and his sycophantic followers. He would do what was right, by fighting against the atrocities that they would commit and had committed. He would do what was right by not following into the trap that was clearly laid ahead of him.

He would do what was right because he was a Slytherin, Salazar Damn Them All, and he was way too intelligent and proud to fall along mindlessly the plan of a villain whose sole purpose was to bring back the Dark Ages of Magic.

But he still didn’t reply. ‘Rule number thirty-six: a vague silence is the best weapon when you don’t want to say something.’

He just nodded along, wordlessly leaving Theo and walking back into the castle, slower than he intended, as if in a trance.

He knew that Neville was waiting for him in the Transfiguration classroom, after all, he had been the one to send the Gryffindor the owl, not caring anymore about who knew about them. Thankfully, though, no one paid attention to the inconspicuous bird that left a letter right on Neville’s plate, nor did he open it in the Great Hall.

He had been brief, only telling him to meet him there as soon as Dumbledore’s funeral was over, yet he knew Neville could read the desperation in between the lines: they were running out of time, the school year was completed and there was no certainty that they would be back the next year. Blaise probably would’ve, considering he was a Slytherin and his best friends were all apparently Death Eaters, but he knew that Neville, Valiant, Brave and Selfless Neville, would fight alongside whoever was on their opposite side.

Since the night of the attack, which had been dubbed the ‘Battle of the Astronomy Tower’ by the students, they had managed to see each other less than they had both hoped, only once, with the help of Lovegood and Pansy.

It had happened on July 1st, all exams and the remaining classes had been postponed, the students allowed to remain in the castle to give their final goodbyes to their Headmaster. The tension between the Houses had been at its highest, and no one wanted to be around Slytherins, which was understandable but still hurtful.

Nobody cared about why he had left the common room just after lunch that day, not with Pansy loudly telling him that she’d meet him there, to just go ahead. He had slowly nodded and all but ran all the way to the History of Magic classroom, fearing that he wouldn’t be there or that he wouldn’t show up.

They had planned the little rendezvous just the day before, because the final exam of Transfiguration was coming and Neville had slipped into a panicked state and Blaise were there to comfort him and give him the boost of confidence he deserved. But then the attack happened and the entire world shifted on its axis.

He had seen, both at breakfast and lunch, that Neville was visibly distressed and that he had even refused to meet his gaze, but that was expected. After all, a bunch of idiots that brought shame down Salazar’s good name had killed their Headmaster and ruined their final days.

Except that it was not expected, because he was Neville, and he was the only person in the entirety of Hogwarts that knew how far ran Blaise’s disdain for the Dark Lord’s work. He could not vent into the Slytherin common room, surrounded by sons and daughters and nieces and nephews and grandchildren of all sorts of Death Eaters. He could not complain in his dormitory, with four out of the five people living there committed, willingly or not, into that lifestyle.

But he could always talk to Neville, he could always listen to the Gryffindor talk about pots for hours to end without being bored, while simultaneously taking his mind off the situation.

He prayed to Merlin’s soul that Neville wouldn’t back down from him now.

Thankfully for his sanity, he was there, just about to enter the classroom they both know would be empty. Not bothering to check if someone was nearby, he had ran to the other boy, smacking him into the still closed door and fitting his head in the crook of his neck while his arms clang desperately to the Gryffindor’s waist.

“B, someone might see us” he had said, but the corridor was empty and Blaise didn’t care anymore. ‘Let them’ he had wanted to say, but instead he had just nodded along. It would be irrational, nay nearly suicidal, to come out of the shadows now. If Hogwarts hadn’t been ideal before, it would be even less now.

As soon as they were inside, the door closed behind their backs, Neville had resumed their position, locking lips with Blaise’s, the kisses desperate and frantic. Blaise, as always whenever Neville kissed him, couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t the boy next to him, that was pushing him hard against a desk and that was ravishing him like that.

But Neville’s body had been silently shaking with sobs, his lips trembling as he held onto Blaise for stability. Soon, the tears had come and Blaise was now holding him close, whispering sweet nothing into his hair as he smoothed down his hands over his back, comforting him.

“Sorry” Neville had then whispered, drying up his eyes and sitting down, his hands never leaving Blaise’s.

“Do not apologise for feeling, Nev.” He had brushed his thumb over the back of his hand, a soothing gesture that they had shared many times, in way less stressful situations. “How are you holding up?” “Hellish. The entire House’s broken. Harry is a bloody shell, I saw Ginny break down twice, even McGonagall’s not working.” Blaise had flinched at that: he knew that Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore were close, but he couldn’t imagine how devastated she was. And if she wasn’t ‘working’, as Neville had put it, it meant that Hogwarts was doomed, for good.

“This is bad, B, proper bad.” “I… I’m so sorry” he exhaled, putting his head down on his palms, hiding the shame that was visible on his features. A dozen what ifs rushed over his head. He should’ve seen this coming, he suspected something bad was about to happen, after all. But he could never imagine, in his worst nightmares, the gravity of Draco’s actions.

He couldn’t even imagine Draco to be capable of such villainy.

Neville, it seemed, had found amusing his distress. “Why are you apologising? Taking up on my habit? You’ve done nothing wrong!” “Au contraire, I did nothing” he had said, softly and ashamed, “I knew Draco had been up to something wicked, yet I did nothing. I should’ve… I don’t know, report him or something, all those times he sneaked out to repair that fucking wardrobe and shit like that. Porca puttana, I’ve been so blind. I… Just because he’s my friend, I let him get away with all this. And now we’re all paying the consequences of his cowardice… mi dispiace, Nev, It’s all my fault…” “Do not, under any circumstances, say that again” Neville had calmly spoken, with a voice so impassive and cold that it simultaneously froze Blaise’s blood and made it boil up. Then, he had softened his gaze and had seated down next to Blaise, his turn to be the comforting one: “It is so not your fault. Don’t you dare say it is. How could’ve you known what was really going down? It’s only You-Know-Who’s fault, all of this, since the beginning.” “But Draco…” “You’re not responsible for his idiotic actions. He made his choices, but you have made yours as well.”

Neville had left no room for argument, nor that there would’ve been any. Neville knew what was inside Blaise’s heart, truly, and that was all that mattered.

Afterwards, they had not done much talking, leaving threads hanging as they rolled happily on the floor, uncaring about the storm that was raging outside of their little personal bubble.

To Blaise it had felt too much like an empty goodbye and he could not live with himself unless he rectified his actions and properly made Neville understand that he would be on his, their, side, no matter how much it would hurt him to betray his friends.

But they had stabbed him first: it would start with Muggles, then it would be Muggleborns, then everyone who didn’t conform with the Dark Lord’s ideas, and, no matter how much of a Pureblood he was, he would always be marginalized by his personal preferences and the colour of his skin.

He moved quickly through the castle, for once the stairs not moving when they were not supposed to, and he finally reached his destination.

Steadying his rushing heart, he opened the door, finally breathing without a heavy weight on his lungs now that he saw Neville, causally seated on one of the desks, hair and tie askew. When he saw Blaise, he broke out in a blinding smile, so at odds with the circumstances.

Blaise could do nothing but follow suit, his own lips stretching happily as he moved closer and kissed him, still seated.

“What did you think of the funeral?” Blaise asked, not removing his mouth from his favourite spot on Neville’s neck, a place that elicited such sweet sounds that Blaise could not resist.

“It was a nice funeral” came the breathless reply, rushed and hushed and followed suit by one of those little noises. “Agreed. Not gay enough though.”

Neville then tangled his hands on Blaise’s hair, that had now grown longer than he wanted it to and was curling over his ears. “B, nothing’s gay enough for you.”

He moved slightly away, unwilling to remove himself from their hug yet needing to, to convey his meaning properly: “He was the most flamboyant wizard in history! Look me in the eye and tell me that he was straight.”

Neville snorted at that, shaking his head slightly and resting his forehead over Blaise’s, “My grandma said he his longest ‘friendship’ was with Grindelwald and he didn’t fight him initially due to a ‘blood pact’. So yeah, not straight, that’s a given.”

“See!? It was so disrespecting of them to give such a straight eulogy…!”He couldn’t finish his sentence, not when Neville had cut him off so sweetly by mirroring his earlier action. All Blaise could do was to hold on tightly at Neville’s red and golden tie, closing his eyes and savouring the movements the Gryffindor was making with his mouth over his neck.

But he was a man with a mission, Merlin Damn It, and he should’ve follow through. As usual, he never took in consideration the simple fact that Neville rendered him speechless and useless with a single glance, thus ruining all his monologues.

With his entire being screaming at him, he removed himself for the second time in a few minutes, his body aching for the contact.

“I didn’t write you to meet me just to snog” he said, not his proudest choice of words, yet once they were out there was nothing he could do to take control over them. At least, they managed to convey the message, or at least a part of it.

“I figured as much” Neville calmly admitted, patting the empty spot next to him on the desk “What’s wrong? We agreed we’d have to keep a low profile and that we’d see each other after school was over.” “It already pretty much is over and I can’t get on the train without properly goodbye.” “Isn’t the mark I left on you enough goodbye?”

“Nev!” he yelled outraged, a rose colour starting to spread over his cheeks as he looked over at the smug Gryffindor, who calmly replied, without missing a beat: “Blaise, we already planned on seeing each other in Muggle London. We don’t need to ‘proper goodbye’!”

He would never admit, not even under torture, that he might not be ineffable and that he might have forgotten their plans, in the heat of the murder. “Are we still doing that?” he asked, cautiously staring at the floor to avoid Neville’s eyes. “You-know-who can’t keep me from going out on a date with my boyfriend!”

Blaise was now sure he looked akin a tomato. He was utterly unable to process Neville’s words without blushing.

They had agreed on being exclusive since the beginning of their relationship, but never dwelled on terms of endearment, mainly due to Blaise’s refrain from using them due to his mother’s rule. Yet, after they had both professed their feelings after their idiotic fight, Neville had brought up the subject of calling him ‘his boyfriend’. Blaise went, in the span of three seconds, from spent to fully awake, vigorously agreeing.

They did not leave the cupboard closet immediately afterwards, nor in the next half an hour either.

“What are you even gonna do? Fight the Dark Lord over the possibility of holding my hand in a Muggle arena?” he asked once his blood had stopped moving into organs he did not need at the moment. He hadn’t gone there just to shag, after all! “Seamus told me they’re called cinema” Neville corrected him. Those were the pros of having not one, but three roommates that were so immersed into the Muggle culture. Although he had once shared with Blaise that Saint Potter was not so used to their terms and customs, for reasons unbeknownst to anyone other than Weasley and Granger.

“And, yes” Neville continued, proudly, “that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’m a Gryffindor, that’s what we’re programmed to do!”

He couldn’t control the laughter that erupted out of him. Neville continuously managed to surprise him, especially with one liner like that: the sarcastic and humorous Gryffindor was an endless well of happiness, even in such grim times.

He had been wrong at the beginning, thought, thinking that the Sorting Hat had messed up: Neville did belong in Gryffindor, his morals and disregard of the rules said as much in many occasions. He knew when to stand up for something and when to back down, he was always friendly and kind. But he had a ruthlessness that Blaise could never expect out of him. Not out of sweet, chubby Schlongbottom.

But that was also due to his lack of involvement with him. If he had pulled his head out of his arse sooner, who could tell what would’ve been of either of them.

“I’ll do it too” Blaise said suddenly, after a quiet moment had passed between them. “What?”

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to recall the monologue he had prepared before the funeral. He wasn’t even surprised at this point, to find out that all words had suddenly disappeared and that his brain was leaving him to wing his masterfully crafted speech.

“Fighting. I’ll fight too. On your side.” He internally flinched at his poor choice of words, but, once again, they conveyed his intent almost flawlessly. “You want to join the Order?” Neville cautiously asked, as if he was unsure of where Blaise’s words were coming from.

“I don’t particularly want to join shit. But I will do what’s necessary…” “What do you mean?”

He sighed, turning fully and grasping Neville’s hands in his. “I need you to be safe, Neville. I’ll do whatever to keep you safe.” He hoped the Gryffindor would understand him, the desperation he felt at the thought of him hurt, or worse. “When September comes, if the world doesn’t end first… you know I won’t stay put” he said stoically, his jaw clenched and his hands slightly shaking. Blaise covered them with his, smoothing his thumbs over the soft skin to bring him understanding and comfort.

“I know and I love you for it, so much. But who protects the Mighty Gryffindor when he’s protecting the world?”

It was Neville’s turn to blush now, but he still maintained his cold demeanour: “So that’s where you come in?” “Think about it. I can be your eyes and ears inside. Theo already thinks I’m being precious and taking my time to become one of theirs” he said, bile raising at the thought of joining the Death Eaters and sadness at the knowledge that two of his closest friends were already lost in that dark path, “It won’t be hard for me to infiltrate.” Neville abruptly removed his hands from his and rose up: “So that’s what you’ll do? Spy for both sides?” he asked, his words laced with venom and what Blaise assumed would be regret. “Don’t be ridiculous, you know those idiots could never convince me to join their racist movement” he said, getting on his feet as well and moving closer to Neville. “I’ll fight for what is right” he simply said, hoping for the Gryffindor to understand him fully.

“Very heroic of you, Slytherin” Neville said, visibly relaxing and showing him away playfully with his shoulder “Very intelligent and cunning I’d say” he chuckled, before taking back his grim conclusion: “Heroes don’t get to live long.”

Neville nodded in agreement, running a hand over his hair and messing it up even further than it already was. It had grown longer in those past months that they had been together, it now reached almost at the base of his neck with soft curls. Blaise had spent countless times with his hands tangled there, never once bringing up the subject of cutting it and never regretting that decision. His own was meticulous and he prided himself on it, but he had grown fond of the dishevelled look Neville constantly had, whether after a discussion of Gamp’s Laws of Elemental Transfiguration or a proper snogging or, in most cases, both.

And Neville’s hair couldn’t look like he had just ran his hands through it if it was short. Or it could, but it wouldn’t elicit the same reaction out of Blaise.

He would be content for eternity, standing happily in that single moment, kissing lazily and then heatedly and fervently. But the world had crashed over them and they had to get back to reality somehow. It was Neville, after some moments spent in the arms of the other, to remind him: “Train leaves in the morning” he simply said, sorrow dripping over his features as Blaise untangled them and took a step back, never once removing his hand from Neville’s. Blaise nodded bleakly, before cheerfully claiming: “I’ll see you next week in London, caro. Don’t forget to write me.”

Just because times were dire now, that didn’t mean that they had to lose their light, right? “I won’t, flower” Neville fired back, winking and causing Blaise’s brain to shortcut momentarily. “I told you to stop calling me like that!” he indignantly yelled, enjoying the way Neville’s laugh warmed his insides and seemed to bring colour to the world. “But you’re so cute when you blush!” He didn’t reply, not really. Blaise simply moved once again closer and planted a soft and chaste kiss on Neville’s lips, savouring the way he still giggled at the softest of actions, even after all the time they had passed exploring each other’s bodies, and imprinting that scene into his memory. ‘Who knows when we will be like this next’ he thought darkly.

He left the room first, conscious that, if it was up to him, he’d never walk away, not from Neville. Closing the door at his back had been almost painful and it left him in a state of somewhat trance.

He walked back to his dormitory in silence, lost deep in his thoughts. He didn’t encounter anyone on his way back and was grateful for it. That left him some necessary time to structure a persona in his mind that would fit the details he had to fake and, if someone stumbled on him walking in an empty corridor grimly, that would meant that Blaise would have to start acting sooner than he had hoped.

With each step he took toward the common room, his conviction strengthened: he would do it, he would spy from the inside and report back to Neville, who would then tell those who needed to know.

He would do what was right, even if it pained him to lie to Draco and Theo and even Pansy. He did not know for sure where her loyalties laid, but he wasn’t willing to bet on them. After all, he had already started to lie to her.

He had told her that they had broken up days ago and she had believed him. His performance had been masterful, he had even managed to throw in a fake tear as he sorrowfully told her that Neville had claimed he ‘just couldn’t be with someone like him anymore’. Given their current circumstances, it could have whatever meaning the witch could imagine, but thankfully she did not ask more.

When he entered the common room, his character was completely mapped out in his mind. He knew how to lie flawlessly and was an excellent actor, and that was going to be his most important role just yet.

Whatever came, he’d do what was right.

THE END